Because You Stayed
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Set directly after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. Sherlock falls ill after rescuing Irene Adler in Pakistan. Sometimes you just need a little help from your friends.
1. Chapter 1

This story is set a few weeks after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. Can be read as a stand-alone (perhaps under the working title 'Why Sherlock Holmes is a nightmare patient to diagnose'), though I do plan to continue this (hence the meaning of the title should become more apparent in the next part).

All these mini-scenes take place over about a fortnight. I'd be most grateful for any thoughts/comments!

Because You Stayed 

by Mally O'Jack

John was surreptitiously watching Sherlock over the corner of his laptop screen. The detective was massaging the back of his neck again.

"Stop it," Sherlock said suddenly.

John jumped. "What?"

"You know what. Stop it. It's annoying."

John gave up the pretence of trying to read his emails, and closed the laptop screen. "Still sore?"

"Yes."

"I told you to take ibuprofen."

"I'm fine."

"Hmph. Well, what do you expect after playing the violin for twenty hours straight? You're bound to have muscle strain. I did tell you."

"I'll make you a nice hot water bottle, love," Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen."That'll make you feel better."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and instinctively reached for his violin bow before remembering his ailment. He sank back into the sofa.

"I wasn't 'playing'. I was composing."

"For twenty hours."

"It was a long composition."

"I didn't get any sleep! Neither did Mrs. Hudson, and neither did Mrs. Turner next door."

Sherlock sat up suddenly. "I did warn you when we first met that I played the violin. I said,

_'How do you feel about the violin?'_ You said, _'Sorry, what?' _I said, '_I play the violin when I'm thinking. Does that bother you?'_ Seeing as how you showed up later to view the flat, I assumed that it didn't."

"I didn't think you meant - " John stopped, hung his head and took a deep breath. "You know what? Never mind. You've learned your lesson and that's the end of it."

Except two weeks later, Sherlock was still aching.

* * *

They were in the lab at Barts. Sherlock was sitting ram-rod straight looking at slides through the microscope, and John was at his side, flicking through photographs of the crime scene. He glanced at Sherlock and then did a double-take.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"You're sweating."

"People do sweat, John," Sherlock said, still gazing down the microscope lens, "it's a result of the autonomic nervous system -"

"No, I'm mean _you're_ sweating. You never sweat."

"It's warm in here."

"It's really not." John reached out to feel his friend's forehead, but Sherlock batted his hand away.

"Stop fussing, I'm fine. Check if the centrifuge's finished."

By the time John returned, Sherlock was back to his usual cool, unsweaty self, and so he thought no more about it.

* * *

"Just to warn you," said Molly, "it's not a very pretty one."

She removed the sheet, and John winced in sympathy at the body in front of him, whilst Lestrade actually turned away. Sherlock on the other hand – his face lit up as if he was a child getting his first glimpse of presents on Christmas morning. First of all the detective moved with his usual customary speed around the remains of the corpse, bending, sniffing and exclaiming. And then suddenly he froze.

"Go on then," Lestrade said. "Tell us who did it."

"Um..."

Molly and John both looked up. It was a word that John hardly ever heard him use.

Sherlock blinked. "Excuse me." He turned and fled round the corner, and soon after came the sound of someone throwing up.

"I'll go," said John, touching Molly's arm.

He approached Sherlock, who had thankfully managed to find a sink. John grabbed a wad of paper towels and held them out whilst looking away discreetly. Whilst Sherlock cleaned himself up, John said, "The first time I assisted in theatre I was sick in my mask - "

"I was feeling ill before I saw the body," Sherlock interrupted. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal four nicotine patches.

John's eyes widened. "Sherlock, is that -"

"Yes. I put the fourth patch on half an hour ago. I may be suffering from a mild case of nicotine poisoning."

"Take them off. Right now."

"You lads okay round there?" Lestrade called then.

"Fine," John called back.

"Do you want to examine the body again?"

"No," said Sherlock raising his voice, "I've got all I need." He ripped off the patches with relish. "It was the stockbroker's clerk who did it."

* * *

A few days later, John was at the surgery with a patient when the phone on his desk rang.

"Hello?"

He was fully expecting to hear the voice of Denise the clinic receptionist, and he was thrown when a deep male voice answered.

"John?"

"Sherlock," he hissed, turning away from Mrs. Wilkes - "this is the surgery phone."

"I know. I tried your mobile but you didn't answer."

"It's on silent - how did you even get this number?"

"Doctor?"

He held up his hand - "Sorry Mrs. Wilkes, be with you in a second."

"I need your medical opinion," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, I'm at work -"

"Hypothetically speaking," said Sherlock, carrying on regardless, "what would your diagnosis be if an adult male returned from foreign travel, displaying symptoms of - "

"I've got a bus to catch in 10 minutes," Mrs. Wilkes said, drowning out Sherlock's voice.

"Yes, Mrs. Wilkes, I'm very sorry. This is an urgent telephone consultation, I'll be as quick as I can."

"- headache, fever -" Sherlock was saying.

John's ears pricked up. "Fever, you said?"

"Yes."

"And he's just returned from abroad? He's probably got malaria then." Despite the interruption, John felt quite satisfied with himself. For once he knew something that the great Sherlock Holmes didn't.

But Sherlock said, "I suspected as much."

John's satisfaction turned into exasperation. "Well, why did you bother calling then?"

"John, hypothetically speaking...what if this wasn't hypothetical?"

* * *

Looking back, it was all very clear with the benefit of hindsight. Of course Sherlock had malaria. And John wasn't to blame if Sherlock's lifestyle, with his violin playing and experiments and bloody nicotine patches, masked the usual symptoms of the disease. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

He stomped up the stairs to the flat. The lounge door was already open, otherwise he would have taken great pleasure in throwing it open to make a grand entrance. As it was, Sherlock was slumped on the sofa and so John stood in the middle of the room and glared at him for a bit.

"So," he said, breathing hard, "when you said you had that big case last month and had to catch a plane to -"

"Aberdeen."

"You were actually going to - "

"Karachi."

"Right." John folded his arms. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know why you went."

Sherlock actually sat up then, and looked at him intently. "So you understand why I couldn't tell you?"

"I could have helped - "

"It was too dangerous, John. For you, and for her." Sherlock's tone was insistent, and brooked no room for argument.

John stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Fine. Come on, let's go."

Sherlock frowned. "What? Where?"

"The hospital." John started looking about him for his flatmate's coat.

"No."

"Sherlock, don't start - "

"I can't go to the hospital," Sherlock said forcefully. "Mycroft would get wind of it somehow and then her safety would be compromised."

"Do you understand how serious malaria can be?" John said.

"Yes," Sherlock shot back, "I looked it up in one of your medical textbooks."

"Sherlock - " John closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "All right. Here's what we'll do. We'll get Molly to run a sample of your blood and then we'll start you on oral antimalarials. But if it's one of the more complicated forms of malaria then you're going to hospital for IV meds and we'll deal with Mycroft later. Okay?"

"Yes." Sherlock sank back into the sofa, visibly relaxing. "Thank you, John."

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the final part. Thanks for reading. Minor correction after _Matchbox Dragon's _review (cheers).

Because You Stayed – part II

* * *

**Wednesday afternoon **

The Golem is inside 221b Baker Street. Sherlock stares at it with unblinking eyes.

"Sherlock?"

The Golem stares back at him. It is grinning.

"Sherlock?"

There is a harsh, panting sound. He swallows and the sound stops for a moment, then it starts again.

"Tell me what you're seeing."

The Golem wiggles its fingers at him.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

"It's okay," John said, trying to calm him down. "It's all right."

But Sherlock continued to search the lounge frantically, checking behind the curtains, under the table, behind the desk. "No, it's not 'all right', John. The Golem's here. He's found us."

John followed him into the kitchen. "You're hallucinating. Remember, we talked about this? The antimalarials you've been taking have side-effects. This is one of them."

But Sherlock was shaking his head. "Oscar Dzundza; he eluded us at the Planetarium and so I presumed he'd returned to the Czech Republic but obviously he's still under Moriarty's employment so therefore - " He stumbled then, and caught the edge of the kitchen counter to steady himself.

John reached for him in concern. "Sherlock, stop this. You need to rest."

But Sherlock shrank away from his touch. "No, that's what he wants. Don't you see? He'll wait until I'm unconscious and then he'll -"

"I won't let him," John interrupted. He didn't want Sherlock to finish that sentence. The image of the Golem suffocating his friend was still startlingly present in his mind, along with the horrible noises Sherlock had made as he'd fought for breath.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and headed into the lounge again. He started pacing in a circle, clutching at his hair.

John approached him slowly. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, waving the question away.

"Lie down then. Close your eyes. I'll be right here." John picked up the paper and sat down in the armchair. After a few minutes he was gratified to see Sherlock lie down on the sofa. For a long time he felt Sherlock's gaze on him, and then eventually there came the sound of slow, rhythmic breathing. It was only then that John relaxed.

* * *

At first it had been amusing. Sort of. Tuesday, Sherlock had started the course of antimalarials, and John had headed upstairs for the night, only to wake suddenly to find a figure standing at the foot of his bed.

He started in fright. "What the - "

"I've written a new composition," the figure informed him.

Trying to ignore his racing heart, John rolled over and switched on the bedside light. He let out a cry. "Sherlock, it's ten to four in the morning!"

"I've composed it in colour," Sherlock continued. "Each note corresponds to a wavelength in the visual spectrum. Watch." And Sherlock began to play, a meaningless crash of notes. "Look," he said, gesturing wildly to the air with his bow, "are you watching?"

"Yeah, yeah I am."

Sherlock played on, his eyes flitting about. "Well?"

"It's very nice," he responded absently. "Like being in a planetarium." He was wondering how to get the violin off Sherlock when suddenly Sherlock pulled him to his feet.

"You try." Standing directly behind him, Sherlock tucked the violin under John's chin, lifted John's left hand to support the neck of the violin and took John's right hand in his to guide the bow over the strings.

"Well, this isn't embarrassing," John said to no one in particular. In the close proximity he could feel the fierce heat radiating from his flatmate.

"What do you think?" Sherlock said in his ear.

"It's lovely. Very pretty." He manoeuvred gently out of Sherlock's grasp. "Let's get you back into bed."

"I've not finished it yet," Sherlock said, looking at him with over-bright eyes. "The colours are still coalescing -"

"Save it for tomorrow. You need to rest; you've still got a fever."

"I like having a fever; it makes existence less boring."

Yet Sherlock had allowed himself to be guided back downstairs to his room. John settled him in bed with water and a couple of paracetamols, and then stood outside his door for a good ten minutes until the silence convinced him it was safe to return upstairs.

He hid the violin in his wardrobe.

* * *

**Wednesday morning **

He made his way downstairs to find Sherlock camped out on the sofa reading a newspaper.

"Morning."

Sherlock grunted at him distractedly.

"How you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Do you remember what happened last night?"

A flicker of interest then. "No."

"You woke me up with your violin." John tried not to smile. "You said you were composing in colour."

"Oh." Sherlock went back to reading his newspaper, but from the intent way he was examining the front of the sports section John could tell he'd embarrassed him. He felt a pang of guilt.

"You know, I went on a medics pub crawl once. Someone spiked my drink and I ended up climbing onto the bar and singing _Greased Lightening_ in front of the whole pub. Dance moves and everything. Couldn't remember a thing afterwards. Worse thing was, someone recorded the whole thing on their phone."

"And the point of that anecdote is?" Sherlock said, his attention still on the newspaper.

John cleared his throat. "I was trying to make you feel better. About last night."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "How is you telling an embarrassing story about yourself supposed to make _me_ feel better?"

"It wouldn't. Don't know what I was thinking. So." He slapped his knees and stood up. "You're being ill in the lounge now are you?"

"Obviously. You're in here seventy percent of the time."

_Don't ask, don't ask_... But he couldn't help it. "Come again?"

Sherlock flicked over to the business section. "When you're in the flat, you spend seventy percent of your time in the lounge, ten percent of your time in the kitchen, fifteen percent in your bedroom and five percent in the bathroom."

He frowned. "But I wasn't in the lounge earlier, I was upstairs."

Sherlock gave him a look. "I'm not going into your room. That would be completely inappropriate."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" John said under his breath as he went to make some coffee.

And so the day was spent with Sherlock resting on the sofa reading John's medical journals and answering the CPD questions on his behalf.

It was late afternoon when they were watching Deal or no Deal when Sherlock said suddenly, "I think Mycroft put a tracking chip in my arm."

"What?"

"I think Mycroft put a tracking chip in my arm," Sherlock said again, punctuating each word.

"How do you know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's just the sort of thing he'd do." Before John could come up with a suitable reply, Sherlock waved a hand at the TV. "She should deal. Her box only contains a penny."

"Great, thanks for spoiling it for me."

"I thought the aim of the show was to find out how much the contestant's box is worth?"

"Yes, it is, but -"

"So now you know."

"Yeah. Thanks for that. Now I don't have to watch the rest of it."

As Sherlock proceeded to deduce the value of the other contestants' boxes, John gradually nodded off. And that was when Sherlock saw the Golem.

* * *

**Wednesday afternoon - after the Golem**

When John was sure that Sherlock was asleep, he took another look at the instructions that came with the antimalarials.

He'd prescribed them under Molly Hooper's name. "Are you allowed to do that?" Sherlock had said initially.

"No," he'd replied, harsher than he'd intended, "but I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to go round shooting cab drivers either."

There was an awkward silence. "Sorry," he said after a moment.

"No, it's all right...I appreciate you helping me."

John had given him a tight smile. It hadn't been easy, smuggling Sherlock's blood sample into Barts, persuading Molly to ask one of her colleagues to analyse it, to then determine the appropriate medication, and to persuade Molly to sign for them.

The cause of his anger hadn't been so much about breaking medical protocol (though he wasn't too happy about that part either); it was more that he was concerned. What if the medication didn't work? What if the malaria relapsed? What if they did have to go to hospital – how would he head off Mycroft? He was angry with Sherlock for putting him in this position, for making him feel like this.

And then there was Irene Adler. Still alive after all; John hadn't even touched that one. And there he'd been, thinking she was dead, and worrying about Sherlock thinking she was dead. But no; Sherlock had gone on a little jolly to Pakistan, the two of them probably having a good old laugh together at poor, gullible John's expense.

No. That last part wasn't fair on Sherlock. But he was still aware that he'd been _played_ somehow, and was ticked off nonetheless.

To his credit, Sherlock had at least sensed some of John's anger, for he hadn't fought John at all on any of his instructions. Drink lots of water? Yes. Bed rest? Yes. Take the tablets? Yes.

"It's a three-day course," John had said. "Quite a heavy dose, so there might be a few side-effects."

Sherlock's eyes had lit up. "What kind of side-effects?"

"I'm not telling you. You'll probably end up thinking you've got half of them."

"Please; I'm not that suggestible."

Yes, Sherlock had been a model patient. He'd even refused one of Lestrade's cases, claiming he had the flu.

It was just sod's law that the side-effects of the antimalarials seemed to be affecting Sherlock more than the malaria itself.

* * *

**Wednesday night**

First Sherlock made him examine his arm to see if there was a surgical scar from where Mycroft had inserted a tracking device.

Then he found Sherlock packing up his suitcase to meet a client in Minsk. It took John nearly an hour to convince him that he'd already been.

And interspersed with these were the nightmares. Mutterings about swordsmen, Chinese assassins, Moriarty... and John could only sit helplessly, positioning himself so that when Sherlock woke each time, the first thing he saw was him.

* * *

**Thursday morning**

John woke to the sound of the kettle boiling. Shortly after, a warm mug of tea was pressed into his hands.

"Thanks," he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "How you feeling?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "Less hot," he said eventually.

"That's good."

"Bit floaty still."

"That's probably normal at this stage."

He felt as if he hadn't slept at all. He rubbed his sore neck, and instantly regretted it as he caught Sherlock looking at him.

"You didn't have to sleep in the armchair all night."

"I know."

"You don't have to stay in the flat today either."

"I know that too." He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. It was too early to start arguing with Sherlock.

"I have been ill before. I coped fine by myself."

"I'm sure you did. And now you've got me."

"But I don't need you."

John exploded then. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, _I know._ I know you can look after yourself; I know you don't need me around. I'm just _here_. It's what friends do."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

John could almost see Sherlock mentally filing that fact away under his 'friend' folder. "Now shut up and let me drink my tea in peace.

* * *

**Thursday afternoon**

They played chess together for the first time. John had only played once before, back in school, and so Sherlock gave him a refresher course. They'd been playing for an hour now.

John moved his rook -

"No."

So he moved the pawn -

"No."

He picked up the bishop -

"No."

"You tell me where to move then if you're so bloody clever," John said, irritated.

"You can't make any more moves. You're in checkmate."

"Well, why didn't you tell me that? You're supposed to say 'checkmate', not keep it to yourself."

"I wanted to see how long it would take for you to notice."

John didn't have any response to that. He sat back in the chair, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"Another game?"

"No." He was so tired. His body craved rest. It wasn't so much the lack of sleep; rather it was the constant stress, being on edge, never knowing what Sherlock was going to do next. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson could pop out and get him some Red Bull...then he remembered that she'd gone to visit her sister.

"Go to bed, then," Sherlock said, as if reading his mind.

"I will, later." He pushed himself out the armchair and came back with a glass of water and the box of tablets.

"Here, last one," he said to Sherlock, tossing the box into his lap and placing the water beside him.

But Sherlock hesitated. Gone was the smugness of the chess game; he looked uncertain. "It's not pleasant... not being myself."

It was as close as Sherlock would come to asking for reassurance. "It's okay. I won't let you do anything stupid. Well, more stupid than usual." He started packing away the chessboard.

Sherlock had smiled a little at that, but there was an odd look in his eyes as he took the tablet.

* * *

**Thursday evening**

There was a knock at the door. At first John didn't hear it over the scratchings of the violin; the detective had found the instrument and was composing in colour again.

He opened the front door to find Lestrade on the doorstep holding a bag of grapes.

"Greg," he said, slightly surprised. "Hi."

Lestrade grinned. "Thought I'd pop round after work and see how the invalid's doing."

"Oh, well -" John said, looking up the stairs, "he's - "

"Must be something pretty serious to keep Sherlock Holmes from a case."

"Yeah, it's..." he trailed away distractedly. The violin playing had stopped.

Lestrade peered at him closely. "Mind you, you look a bit rough yourself. Have you got it, too?"

He forced his sluggish mind to reply. "Yeah, no I'm fine -" There came a crash from upstairs. "Would you excuse me?" He rushed up the stairs, barely registering that Lestrade was following him.

* * *

He burst into the lounge to find Sherlock brandishing a bloodied letter opener. The ornaments from the fireplace lay strewn across the floor.

"Sherlock?"

"It's in my arm, John," Sherlock said, and John saw the blood on his left forearm. "Mycroft put it there. I need to get it out."

"Hang on," Lestrade said behind him, "Is he on something - ?"

"No," John said without turning round. "It's not what you think."

Sherlock was scrutinising his arm, as if working out where to make the next incision.

"You know," he said, edging forward, "there's other ways of finding out if you have a tracking chip in your arm."

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "Like what?"

"We could do an x-ray."

"Could we?"

"Yeah. When you're feeling better, I'll take you down to Barts and we'll get that x-ray."

The letter opener was still poised over the exposed forearm.

"Deal or no deal?" John said, holding out his hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's weak attempt at humour, but he did hand the letter opener over.

John let out the breath he'd been holding. He was feeling a bit wobbly. He held the letter opener behind his back, and he felt Lestrade take it from him.

"Now, let's have a look," he said, taking Sherlock's arm gently. He wiped away the blood with the sleeve of his jumper. "It's not deep. You just need a plaster."

He turned, and saw that Lestrade was looking at him in concern.

"John, you're obviously knackered. I'll sort him out. You go and get some rest."

"No, it's fine," he said, but his voice sounded strange, as if it was coming from somewhere else. "I'm just -"

"Trust me on this," Lestrade said firmly.

John stared at him, and then nodded. "All right. First aid kit's under the sink. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

* * *

**Friday morning - early**

He didn't mean to sleep for so long.

He got up, still in the same clothes as yesterday, and crept downstairs. Tentatively he pushed the lounge door open, and then had to take a second to process the scene in front of him.

Lestrade was holding Sherlock in his arms. He'd moved the coffee table away and was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa. His legs were stretched out either side of a sleeping Sherlock, who was lying half across Lestrade's lap, his head cradled in the nook of Lestrade's arm.

Lestrade looked up then.

"Tea?" John said, finding his voice.

"Wouldn't say no."

He came back into the lounge with two mugs.

"Cheers."

He sat down next to Lestrade. Outside, it was that funny grey half-light, when London hadn't quite woken up yet and the traffic was silent.

"I used to do this sometimes when he was coming down," Lestrade said after a while. "Back when I first knew him. He usually hates being touched, but somehow this..." He trailed off, shrugged. "Seems to help."

"Looks like it." It always amazed him how Sherlock managed to look so endearing when he was asleep and yet elicit the exact opposite reaction when he was awake.

"You know," Lestrade continued, "he is high maintenance, but you don't have to do it all yourself. He does have friends, although he won't admit it." He nudged John. "So do you."

"Yeah." He smiled to himself, recollecting the lecture he'd given Sherlock on much the same topic.

"Anyway, better go." Lestrade said, downing his tea. "Don't want him to wake up like this; he'll get all sniffy."

Together they lifted the sleeping detective onto the sofa. "What's up with him, anyway?"

"Flu."

"Right."

Obviously Lestrade wasn't buying it, but fortunately the man didn't press the issue. As he stepped out into the chilly London morning, John called after him.

"Greg. Thanks."

Lestrade winked at him, and turned to hail a cab.

* * *

**Friday morning – slightly less early**

Sherlock was stirring on the sofa.

"You awake?"

Sherlock looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "Yes. You can stop tiptoeing around now like some overgrown fairy."

John laughed. "How you feeling?"

"Better."

"Tired?"

"A bit. I don't want to sleep any more, though."

"Fair enough. Anything to eat? Drink?"

Sherlock shook his head, and so John sank into the armchair and picked up his laptop.

"Was Lestrade here?" Sherlock said suddenly.

"Why?"

"I can smell his aftershave."

"Yeah, he was here. Left some grapes. Then he went."

"Hmm."

To ward off any further questions, John said, "Want me to stick the news on?"

"Boring."

"How about the paper?"

"Dull."

"Suit yourself."

Sherlock looked at him then, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Will you read me a bedtime story?"

"Sod off."

* * *

**Friday morning - still quite early**

A sort of calm had descended over 221b Baker Street. It was...pleasant. Rain was starting to fall on the windowpanes.

From the sofa, Sherlock said, "You've lived abroad. Have you ever had malaria?"

"Yeah, I have actually."

"I thought so."

"Did you?"

"Yes.

John cocked his head. "How could you tell?"

"You just...knew. How to make it less... bad. For me."

"Oh." He was touched. "Well, good."

"Yes."

They let the words hang in the air for a bit.

Sherlock looked at him sharply then. "What kind of malaria did you have?"

"The bad kind."

"Where?"

"Afghanistan."

"Tell me about it?"

"Well..." John scratched his head. "I'm not really sure where to start."

"How about 'once upon a time'?"

"This isn't a bedtime story."

"I know it isn't."

John smiled then. He closed his lap top screen. "Okay." Sherlock shifted on the sofa so that he was lying facing him.

"Once upon a time in Afghanistan, there was an army doctor by the name of John Watson..."

* * *

_Finis_


End file.
